The Air I Don't Breathe
by DreamySerenade
Summary: Dean despises himself for enjoying torturing souls in hell and can't forget about it in his nightmares. Sam hopes he evolved a plan to show Dean that he still loves him the same ... or even more? Wincest


Sam is reluctantly pulled out of the security of his dreams by the heat of his brother's body pressing a bit too strongly against his back, by the arm clenching a bit too tightly around his chest. Dean's shaky breathing against his neck gives him goose bumps, makes his stomach clench. Sam lays his hand upon the strong fingers on his waist while he slowly opens his eyes, letting them adjust to the screaming light of the red coloured letters from the motel entrance shining through their window.

_It's okay, Dean. Don't listen to the wailing voices in your head. It wasn't your fault. You're safe here with me._

Wrapped in Dean's embrace he swallows hard, then hesitantly turns around to face the inner demons of his brother. There they are, living in blown black pupils and destroying the normally endless green worth staring in forever.

Long fingers now reaching up to trail over cold sweat skin, over of a hard cheekbone and further up to the nose, not missing one of the little freckles on this beautiful face.

_I love you. You're not wrong. Not more than I am. We belong together. I'm with you all the way._

With this unspoken promise told with a hint of a smile, Sam begins their well known ritual. He moves his hand until he cups the back of his brother's head and leans in to softly close his lips around Dean's lower one. Sucks it a little in his mouth, a short nibble and he lets it go in favor of looking into beloved eyes. They haven't changed much, but Sam can see it, the tiny spark able to banish the shadows of guilt and let the soul take what it needs – at least for a little while. Sam finds Dean's hand, guides it under his shirt and lets it rest on the warmth of his belly. As Dean closes his eyes with a long inhale of warm, moist air and starts to move his hand over Sam's waist to his back and up to his shoulder blades, Sam exhales and lets go.

He gives his control and trust freely, letting his brother take the lead and power over his life.

Dean takes in the scent of his brother, mixed up with his shampoo, the resinous wood of the bed and the clean sheets covering them. He slides his palm over the naked skin of Sam's ribs, feels the air leaving his lungs. With every breath Sam exhales, Dean can feel his control over him growing. He holds the younger life in his hands. He could end it if he wanted. Without resistance.

_I'm so sorry, Sammy. I love you. I don't want to hurt you. I'm sorry._

But the consuming fire deep down inside is already burning its way through the bars of its cage, looms at the edge of his consciousness, waiting, lurking. And as if this fire is the foundation of his will to live, Dean feels more awake, feels the passion and love for his brother soaring through him. So he opens his eyes, tightens his grip on strong muscles and presses mouth against mouth. With a thrust of his tongue to part lips, his hips also thrust forward, letting his already half-hard cock meet his brother's. A whimper escapes from the back of his throat while Dean rolls them both over, settling himself between Sam's legs but never breaking the now greedy, almost painful kiss. He bites down on Sam's lower lip, feeling sharp teeth breaking soft skin, tasting the salty blood and moving his mouth further down his jaw, over the drumming pulse of the carotid and further down, down. The tongue licks over Sam's belly button, further down, his nose tickles as it brushes over soft hair. Dean sinks down, down, down and the flames lick higher, higher, higher. And the more the fire spreads its wings, the stronger becomes the urge. His breath is heavy, more a sign of need than a function to live, and his hand is shaky as it lifts the elastic of Sam's boxers and pulls it down and off to the floor with one smooth move, only to be accompanied by his own a moment later.

Sam. Just Sam. His for the taking. Ready to give up everything. Ready to bear everything.

_I love you. I need you._

Now Dean moves up, side to side with the hot burning flames licking away inside of him, over his legs to the hard length of Sam, kissing the head of his cock one time and moves higher to reach his brothers face, to let him taste his own pre-come. Two fingers slide in Sam's mouth to get thoroughly sucked and wet while Dean thumbs and licks over the now hammering heartbeat in the throat underneath him.

_All mine._

Spit slick fingers now find their way down his brother's body to open up, to stretch, to prepare. And the urge is rising, its wings widespread like the legs feeding it, unbearable to hold back any longer. So Dean spits in his palm and hastily strokes his own dick a couple of times, lines himself up and lets his pre-come ease the access. As he thrusts forward he locks his gaze with Sam's, eyes half closed, mouths slightly open. His hands rest next to Sam's ears, his hips find their pace and force. Their hot, moist breaths meet between them, the only sounds are the snapping of hips and small puffs of discarded air, occasionally supported by bitten off whimpers and moans.

Not until Sam lets his head fall back and bares his neck in all its beauty, does Dean shift his weight unsteadily onto his left hand, sliding the other one over Sam's shoulder, down to his collarbone and finally coming to rest on his throat, never losing the rhythm of his rocking hips. The fire blazes, burns his body from the inside, making him shaky and leaving him gasping, and as he tightens his grip around the fragile larynx, muscles, and arteries, it roars in victory.

Sam feels his brother's strong hand pressing down, cutting off his oxygen supply and it makes him wrap one of his own around the wrist on his throat, the other one around his cock. His anxious gaze moves up to meet Dean's. Not anxious because of the harm or because of what could happen to him, no, anxious because of what he will find in those eyes. The eyes hovering above him are still pitch black but Sam can see the difference. There are no more demons, no more haunting ghosts from the past or helpless souls begging for mercy; there are just dark pools blown by burning desire, flickering fire in their depths. And his last coherent thought, before his lungs also start to burn and his diaphragm rears up one last time in a desperate need of oxygen, is directed to this man, his man. His brother who was and always will be there for him, who died for him and who is even now the safest place in the world. When he comes, Dean comes. Then the fog settles in and his own personal blackness creeps up from the sides until there is nothing left but one word:

_Dean._

... and a whisper cuts the air he doesn't breathe: "Sam."

The End


End file.
